


Death of a dowager

by Bluestpaw



Series: Holmesbury Oneshots [2]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Head scratches, Luckily Enola is there to deliver, Minor Character Death, Tewksbury needs a hug, or lack there of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29501103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestpaw/pseuds/Bluestpaw
Summary: Pitter-patte. Pitter-patter.Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.He could imagine it so well.-Undoubtedly, one should feel devastated at their grandmother’s death. Should curse god for taking away something as precious as their own kin – but what is one to feel if the one dead was but a dowager?The dowager dies and Tewksbury is left to ponder what to make of it - and who better to ask than Enola?
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Holmesbury Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167005
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Death of a dowager

**Author's Note:**

> I am a cringy twenty-something, therefore: The sweetness scale: A mix confusing mix between “You got fastfood instead of a Christmas dinner” and a warm cup of milk with honey on a stormy winter night (which, coincidentally, is exactly what I drank while writing parts of this fic) – or maybe the first breath of spring air in March.
> 
> Enjoy ^^

_Pitter-patter, pitter-patter._

_Pitter-patter, pitter-patter._

He could imagine it so well.

* * *

_Pitter-patter,_ the rain should go. _Pitter-patter, pitter-patter_. Big, vile blobs should smack against the grey cobblestone – mirroring the sky up above. _Pitter-patter, pitter-patter_ and _slab slab slab_ should echo through the deserted London streets as people hurried home, their arms protectively held above their heads. _Drop, drop, drop_ the rain pipes should cry, and the eaves and the branches of the tree he’d hide under, to escape the weather’s tears and to hide his own.

But there was no rain. No grey clouds hid the world’s misery from the heaven’s above. Instead, there was an azure sky. And a smiling, laughing sun. Instead of _slab, slab, slab_ the people’s steps went more like _cla-ck – cla-ck – cla-ck_ and instead of screamed cries, barely heard over the vicious storm, there were only the hushed whispers of Victorian society.

Rain should fall and coat the streets and alleys and house fronts and yet it didn’t. For the dowager had died and been laid to rest not an hour ago.

And as the birds sang their song of spring, Viscount Tewksbury, Marquess of Basilwether, hoped she’d burn in hell.

.o.O.o.

_And the halls were dark and empty, not a soul to be found and he hoped, he_ pleaded _, that Enola had been wrong._

–

“ _Grandmother?”_

“ _Yes. I am afraid so. It seems if you want a job done, you have to do it yourself.”_

* * *

House arrest.

He remembered the sentencing all too well.

House arrest.

It had been a slap to the face.

But the Tewksbury family could not afford to shine even more light upon the situation – almost fondly, Tewksbury remembered what his uncle had called that fateful evening – that had shaken Basilwhether Hall to its core.

That had costed his father’s life.

Enola had called it a scandal – and apologized soon after, declaring it a slip of he tongue.

Tewksbury had secretly agreed with her.

The dowager, former Lady Tewksbury – for the murder of her son and the attempted murder of her grandson – had been sentenced to house arrest. Most anyone else would have surely been hanged for such a heinous crime – and yet!

The dowager had not.

Such were the privileges that came with being part of the nobility, Tewksbury supposed.

Perhaps it had been the price to pay for a life of privilege. For Tewksbury had not been able to set a carefree foot in his own home ever since, instead preferring their London house.

It was closer to parliament, anyway.

Hs family hadn’t objected much. His mother had been perfectly fine with caring for the large estate – and his uncle spent most of his time in the colonies anyway.

It shouldn’t matter – of course it shouldn’t. The house in London was beautiful – of course it was. Tall and proudly in Picadilly it stood, a gorgeous garden in the back it had, for him to care for as he pleased. Close enough to university it was, too, and – of course – it allowed him to see Enola Holmes much more frequently, than if he had stayed out of the city.

And yet.

And yet.

Basilwhether Hall had been his home for 16 years. It had been where his father had taught him about all the earth produced, both of them spending countless hours soiling their clothes in the gardens, with dirt and grass stains. It had been where his mother had chased him around whenever he had been especially stubborn and refused to listen to his governess, every nook and corner measured in careful detail to make the most daring and long-lasting escapes.

It had been where his grandmother had told him tales of old, whenever she was awake and willing.

And he hadn’t been able to cherish – or relive! - a single one of these memories, simply because of the dowager.

It was, perhaps, the thing he hated her for most. She hadn’t just made an attempt on his life, she had taken away a cherished part of his life, to never be touched again and he _despised her for it_.

She had kept him from shedding a single tear for her demise. Had kept him from mourning his own grandmother.

.o.O.o.

_Chit-chat, hey, hey!_

London was as lively as ever.

_Watch it – Mind the grease!_

It was silent, too. Most voices nothing but whispers, but here and there someone might cry out, might cause a ruckus – yet the boy running from an elderly gentleman was the worst disturbing the peaceful image.

Tewksbury felt like skipping – he shouldn’t feel this way – but he didn’t skip. Word of the dowager’s death had reached London already – if anyone were to recognize him and report back to his uncle, he was sure to receive a scolding. And the dowager didn’t deserve such attention.

She didn’t deserve his mourning either.

Tewksbury wished he wasn’t publically known. Wished he could fade into anonymity and just – not care.

He didn’t want to be mourning. He didn’t want to be celebrating either he _just didn’t want this to be a big deal_.

He wanted to go about his day as if nothing had happened. As if it hadn’t been his grandmother, hadn’t been his father’s assassin who had been buried today.

He had almost managed to forget her, too – and then she had died, ripping his peaceful contentment away from him, in one, last, spiteful sweep.

.o.O.o.

“ _They never understood. I’m so sorry, my darling._ _The future of the country is at stake.”_

* * *

_Tick – tick – tick_ the dowagers cane had gone. _Tick – tick -tick_ the sound had echoed eerily through the halls. Dark and deserted and entirely unfamiliar.

It had been strange, that day. He – they – had gone from fleeing a prestigious finishing school to – him – planning out a life in London to – Enola – accusing his uncle of murder.

If anything, it had been eventful.

He still remembered his shock, his disbelieve at her words.

And the fear. Enola had told him he'd have to dangle his legs into the water sometimes, to attract the sharks and he had responded that there was no reason to attract those bloody sharks in the first place.

He had wanted to go to London. Had wanted to go into hiding, hell if it cost him his title!

He still stood by what he had said. It had been dangerous, terribly dangerous. As a matter of fact, Enola hadn’t been able to fully convince him of her plan up until the very end.

But Enola had insisted. Willingly, they had walked into danger. Tewksbury had expected Lithorn to be there, had expected his uncle to be there…!

_Tick – tick – tick._

It had been a weird feeling, believing his own uncle to be a murder. To want him dead. He hadn’t wanted it to be true at first but Enola had been so convincing, had laid out all the evidence _and it had made so much sense_. It had made _so much sense_ and somehow – he had almost been ok with it.

His uncle had been his uncle. He had – he had been present, for most of his life, of course he had!

But he had been away, too, his work as soldier pulling him to all parts of the empire. He had been strict and old-fashioned and they had never been particularly close. And neither had the late Lord Tewksbury.

It hadn’t been _fine –_ it hadn’t been fine, but it would have been alright! It-it tore him apart, regardless, because this was his _uncle_ , who had been the first to take him down to the training hall, had tried to teach him the arts of war, his uncle, who had smiled proudly whenever he had been praised by his teachers, _his uncle_ who would have conspired against his own brother!

It hadn’t been alright either. But – but it would have been! Some day! Some time! He would have been fine eventually, would have been able to accept it! After all, didn’t younger brother’s betray their older siblings all the time?

He had been prepared to look into his uncle’s eyes.

_Tick – tick – tick_

But it hadn’t been his uncle. It had been his grandmother’s cane that had broken the silence.

It had been his grandmother who had employed Linthorn.

It had been his grandmother who had killed her own son.

And it had been his grandmother who had aimed that shotgun at him.

.o.O.o.

It was a strange day indeed. Strange enough for Tewksbury to not pay attention to where he was going.

He hadn’t attended the funeral. The dowager was to be buried in the family’s tomb at Basilwether hall and Tewksbury hadn’t dared to return.

He had written his mother and he had yet to open the response she had sent in return, over a week ago – probably telling him to attend anyway. But he couldn't know that until he had read that letter and until then, he’d claim plausible deniability.

May the people make what they wanted out of that. He would not be returning to Basilwether Hall any time soon anyway.

 _Clicki-di-clack, clack-di-click, clack-clack, click-click_ his steps went, perhaps too fast, too delighted, to no betray his true feelings.

_Click-click-click, Cla- - - ack cla - - - ack, Clickclackclickclack, Clack, clack, clack._

Tewksbury didn’t pay any attention to the turns he was taking.

Nonetheless, it didn’t surprise him at all that he found himself standing in front of a quaint house on Baker street.

Tewksbury smiled to himself.

.o.O.o.

“ _It’s done… - It’s done.”_

* * *

Tewksbury had never forgotten the dowager’s words. His dreams were haunted by them, still. He had never been able to unsee her slow, careful, almost trembling movement – when the dowager had picked up the weapon. The way her eyes had seemed so – sorrowful had burned itself forever into Tewksbury’s mind.

She had felt sorrow. The dowager had killed her own son – her own son! – and had aimed a gun at her only grandson and she had felt _sorry_ because she stoically believed herself in the right. Not once had she doubted her own goal. Not once had she considered she may be in the wrong. None of her actions had been malicious, not to her, and it was all the more jarring because – what were they to do? Against someone so caught up in her own world?  
  
Nothing. They hadn’t been able to do anything. So Enola and he had stood there and stared and watched and-

_Bang._

His nightmares never left him after.

_Bang_.

He had begged his mother to melt the chain mail that had ultimately saved his life, but she had refused at first and he hadn’t been back to Basilwether Hall ever since.

“ _Your time is over”,_ Tewksbury had told the dowager back then. For no particular reason other than that it had felt right.

He could have meant a thousands things by that. Could have meant her time of terror was over. The time of her way of thinking. The society she had so desperately clung to.

Her own life.

Tewksbury had never thought he had meant to imply her own life. He hadn’t known what he had wanted to say, he still didn’t know!

But he had never wanted to see her hanged.

He didn’t want her to be sentenced to house arrest either.

He didn’t know what other sentence he hadhad in mind.

But she was his grandmother and as much as he despised it, as much as he wished she wasn’t, he’d never wished for her death.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be smiling then.

.o.O.o.

Enola poured him tea. He remembered the first time he had visited her when she had moved to Baker Street – she had been home alone that time and they both had blushed furiously and it had been entirely awkward and after hours – or minutes or seconds or days or months – of uncomfortable silence Enola had shouted:”WOULD YOU LIKE SOME TEA?!”

It had broken the silence and ever since Enola had made it a habit to pour him tea first.

Tewksbury had never been particularly fond of the beverage.

Enola knew that.

Tewksbury accepted the tea she was pouring him right now without hesitation.

“My apologies for the mess – I have just returned from Wales, you see – and you know how particular Mrs. Hudson is about putting everything into order.”

Enola was buzzing through the room like a working bee, jumping from one shelf to another, though perhaps she was more of a queen.

She’d hate it if he’d ever say that out loud. Enola prided herself in her work and for good reason, too.

“No worries –”, he said. He sat himself on the couch, enjoying the well-worn feeling against his back. Baker Street was familiar and lively and he might be spending as much time here as he did in his own house.

“– I have arrived unannounced, after all.”

At that, Enola frowned.

“You do that most of the time – I’ve never complained.”

“And what a scandal that shall be if word ever got out to the press.”

At _that_ , Enola frowned more sharply and Tewksbury snickered over the top of his cup, very much enjoying the bright smile his words had earned him.

He remembered the days when she had been more guarded around him, when she had tried to disguise her smiles with frowns and her laughter with coughing.

He had loved her back and he loved her now even more so.

He was glad his feet had carried him to her.

They fell into a comfortable silence as he sipped his tea and she buzzed around the room. He knew Enola would listen the moment that he’d speak and Enola knew that he talk the moment he felt ready.

But he wasn’t yet. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about it at all. But for now, he was content to simply watch all her tiny movements – they were utterly delightful, after all.

Enola always did a great deal at once. It was a habit she had grown into – and hadn’t shaken it ever since. She had taught herself to use both hands for writing and one seldom found her holding just one thing.

Right now she was reading a letter – or perhaps file – while simultaneously picking up the pot to pour herself some tea. The window illuminated her form beautifully, the light and the sky and the spotless world.

It was such a peaceful picture.

There should be rain.

“The dowager died. Three weeks ago. She fell asleep in her bed but never woke up.”

The way Enola’s eyes snapped up at his words was jerky, almost. But it were her eyes only, moving suddenly from pot to him – where they stayed, softly resting upon his form. They flashed with disbelieve for just a second – and then her expression softened endlessly, the way it only ever did around him and Tewksbury preened at that, the corners of her lips turning down and her posture sacking ever so slightly.

“I’m – I’m so sorry, Tewkey, I-”

She broke off, her eyes flittering to the put and already it was set down, her eyes back on him and her mouth opened to express the sorrow she felt on his behalf – sorrow she shouldn’t have to feel.

“Don’t be”, he said, hastily, faster than she could express her grief.

He knew she had nightmares of that night, too. She had killed a man in those halls – the cracking of his skull echoing lonely from the walls.

She had thought he had died that night, the echoes joined by a bang.

Both of them hadn’t been left unscarred by what had happened.

“Don’t be, I – I – don’t be sorry.”

Tewksbury’s shoulders sacked at his own words. He sounded stupid. Ungrateful. Like a brat really, and he finally put the cup away, carefully setting it down on the coffee table, his eyes not following the movement, just to be doing something, to have a short reprieve of what was surely to come.

Then he lay down, curled into a tense rock, watching Enola’s every move – fearing she might judge.

Enola didn’t change her posture much. She didn’t change the way her lips were curled or where she held her hands – yet the sorrow in her eyes changed to understanding and Tewksbury almost smiled because – she wasn’t mad.

Of course she wasn’t. She understood, because _of course_ she did.

She always had, after all.

“It’s – there’s nothing wrong with not being able to mourn her, Tewky. She – well, she _did_ try to assassinate you.”

She smiled hesitantly at that, encouragingly, but for once, Tewksbury felt himself unable to reciprocate the gesture.

“She was my grandmother”, he instead said, sounding hollow, his head barely lifting from the sofa’s cushions.

Enola didn’t respond to that. Instead she looked back at him, gradually lowering the piece of paper she had been holding. Her face was distorted to showcase a crying smile, one that shared his pain and slowly casting her eyes downwards.

And then she came over to him, sat down on the couch next to him and lightly carded her hands through his hair.

Tewksbury had never minded Enola’s independence. In fact, he found it rather alluring. But it were times like these especially in which he silently thanked god neither she, nor Sherlock for that matter, had ever bothered to upkeep any sense of societal propriety. Sherlock had never insisted on a chaperone to be present when he came to visit and he had stopped batting an eye whenever they touched by now – be it by hugging or tugging each other along to yet another case.

Enola’s hand softly scratching his scalp felt nice and he dared to close his eyes, trying to forget his sorrows for just a few serene moments.

“You know...”

It was Enola’s murmur that broke the serenity. Her voice was as soft as her ministrations – tentatively extending into the silence.

“You know, I think – I think if Mycroft were to die – right now – for any reason – why, I think I might not be able to mourn him either.”

Tiredly, Tewksbury’s eyes fluttered open again, one eye first and then the other.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Not as much as I would mourn Sherlock.”

“Not as much as you would mourn me?”

Tewksbury’s voice was devoid of any humour that would have been befitting his comment, and yet he had hoped she’d – she'd take a pillow and playfully beat him with it.

She didn’t. Instead, her brow creased in thought and she stopped her scratching for just a second – her hand coming to a halt stutteringly.

“I don’t want to imagine what the world would be without you.”

He shouldn’t smile at her words but he did anyway.

They stayed silent for a bit longer, the crease of Enola’s brow never dwindling as she was deep in thought.

And then it stopped being there and she tilted her head, to look at him and smiled.

“You don’t have to cry, if you don’t want to.”

Untainted sincerity illuminated her eyes and it was, perhaps, the most comforting expression he had ever seen.

“And if you want to cry, don’t worry! And if you want to cry because you can’t – that’s fine, too.”

Her eyes never left his and Tewksbury was thankful for it.

Enla had been called many things In her life and she had been described in the most various ways – from flattering to downright insulting. But no one – not her brothers, not her mother – had ever managed to describe the softness of her smile – the way her lips curved just enough to show just _how much she cared_ and Tewksbury liked to believe it was, because he was the only one trusted enough to be shown it.

Tewksbury closed his eyes again, letting his shoulders finally relax - and smiled.

“You know I love you, don’t you?”, Enola murmured, head tilted ever so slightly to look at his expression.

Lazily, Tewksbury opened his eyes, smile widening.

“And yet, you won’t let me officially court you.”

“And what a scandal that shall be if word ever got out to the press.”

Tewksbury simply laughed.

.o.O.o.

He didn’t cry that afternoon. In fact, he simply enjoyed Enola’s presence, even when she retracted her hand to hold onto a book, even when she got up to and sat at the desk, to write a letter.

And when, a week later, he finally allowed tears to fall, she simply held him and understood.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> So, I rewatched the climactic scene of the movie again and realized that, for some reason, Tewksbury acts dead for like a full minute or so? For no apparent reason whatsoever??? Did he just do it to troll Enola or was he knocked out? But he didn’t seem to be hurt at all so that is weird too and anyway, that scene was a bit weird. Also I now added to my head canon that he did it because he didn’t want her to let go of his hand just yet.
> 
> None of you can change my mind on this.
> 
> Anyhow. I hope you enjoyed the oneshot! If you did - please leave a comment! And if you didn't, I'd love to hear why ^^


End file.
